


Don't You Go To Sleep, It's Such a Bitter Form of Refuge

by Izzylike



Series: A King, a Queen, and Three Heirs [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzylike/pseuds/Izzylike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Elia lives and raises Jon as her own.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/448918"> It Was a Silly Game</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Go To Sleep, It's Such a Bitter Form of Refuge

Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne and now Queen of the Seven Kingdom looks to the small dark haired babe the Stark girl had given birth to before her untimely death. The maester had told the girl not to push herself, but it seemed the Stark girl didn't take kindly to well given advice. The babe, Jon, whimpers and the Queen reaches out a hand to stroke his chubby little cheeks. He coos at her and Elia Martell couldn't help but smile. She lifts the small boy out of his bed and holds him to her. His little warm body shifted until he seemed comfortable and she pulls her shawl around the two of them. He coos to her again and her heart feels so full. 

A door opens and she turns to meet her husband's gaze, which she coldly returns. She does not loosen her hold on the babe and does not drop her eyes. If she makes any movement, it is to raise her chin slightly and meet her husband's gaze with disinterest. She notices Ser Oswell Whent behind her husband but does not acknowledge him. Rhaegar looks away first, eyes darting around the room, then momentarily back to Elia, then, finally, to his son. She also drops her eyes to the black haired babe, her shall still covering him, though the fabric is thin. He lets out a gurgle, before he yawns and takes hold of her shawl to pull some of the fabric into his toothless little mouth. 

Husband forgotten, she cradles the babe with one arm and lifts her other to gently tap his nose. He smiles up to her. 

"Elia." 

She glances back to her husband, eyes once again indifferent in what she was looking at. 

"Your Grace?" 

Her tone was as calm as her gaze and held just as little interest. She did not take pride in the flash of hurt that went through her husband's lilac eyes, but she could no longer afford to be kind simply for other people's pleasure. Rhaegar takes a moment to collect himself, and she does not take her eyes off of him the entire time he does so. 

"I feel it is time we discuss my son. I wish to know which course of action you find would be the better choice." 

She drops her eyes to the boy again and examines his perfect features. 

"His name is Jon, Your Grace, his mother named him." She tries to think of parting with him and finds she cannot. "I wish to raise him, Your Grace. He is your son. He has every right to be raised in Kingslanding, and be legitimized." 

She wonders if Rhaegar means to make little Jon his rightful heir. It pains her to think of, but not enough to wish ill on neither the babe nor Rhaegar himself. 

She raises her eyes back to her husband when she hears the slight hitch his breath takes and quirks a brow lightly at the grin on his face. 

"Thank you, Elia. I'll get a nurse for him -" 

"There is no need to worry about that, Your Grace. I will raise him." 

Her eyes don't miss the slight flinch in his hand or the confusion clearly showing on his face. Ser Oswell looks downright shocked. She smiles as sweetly as she can muster when her husband finally meets her eyes again. 

"It's only right, Your Grace," She turns her attentions back to Jon, and the smile is true. "As the people of Dorne see no shame in bastards, and are more likely than naught to love them as our own." 

Rhaegar cannot refuse. She'd known all along.


End file.
